by Steve White
“Persath, call Reislon and tell him plans have changed. We’re coming directly back to the gig. Tell him to have it ready for takeoff. Tell him also to get on the horn to Borthru and have him get started toward the rendezvous point immediately” Only then did he get out his cell phone and make a call of his own.
“Mom, we’re not coming back to your house. We can’t afford to remain on Earth a minute longer than we have to. We’re leaving immediately on the gig. Your air-car will be there. You remember where it is?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Katy said impatiently. “Don’t worry about the damned aircar. What’s going on? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No! I don’t want you to endanger yourself by getting involved in this in any way. As far as anybody, including the IID, is concerned, you don’t know I’ve been back on Earth.”
“What are you not telling me, Andy.”
Andrew thought of the spurious human corpse. “We’ve learned things that you don’t need to know” was all he said. It was enough.
“Where will you go,” she asked simply.
“Back to the rebel Rogovon fleet, I suppose. I can’t think of anywhere else to go just now.”
He needed no comm screen to see her somber expression in his mind’s eye. “Andy, I’ve never been religious, so I won’t tell you to go with God. But it’s my belief that a very great deal is going with you. Take care. I love you.”
“I love you, Mom.”
After a time, he became aware of a gentle pressure on his shoulder. It was Rachel’s hand.
They fled on through the night.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Reislon was ready for them. No sooner had they piled out of the air-car and into the gig than he activated the drive and lifted off from the darkling mountain meadow, ascending at the sharpest angle of attack of which the craft was capable.
“I gather all did not go as planned,” he said dryly.
Andrew gave a succinct account, including the true nature of the Imperial Temple’s treasured “human” corpse. “Sonic-stun victims can be revived ahead of schedule,” he concluded. “Even now, Waemhofer is probably telling all. So we’ve got to get off Earth and into space as soon as possible.”
“You have,” Reislon pointed out. In the view-forward, the stars were appearing in even greater multitudes than were visible from the remote reaches of the Rockies, no longer twinkling but gleaming with the diamond-hard steadiness they showed in vacuum.
“Overspace would be better still,” said Andrew. “Especially since the Shape-Shifters’ cloaking technology doesn’t seem to be as effective there, for some reason. Did Borthru—?”
“Yes, he acknowledged my call and brought the ship to general quarters. Trovyr is now accelerating.” Reislon indicated the nav plot.
The problem was that the frigate was trailing Earth in its orbit around the sun. So now it was accelerating into a hyperbolic solar orbit heading outward, to reach the region where they could make transition, and at the same time rendezvous with the gig, which after escaped from Earth’s gravity would begin to kill its velocity and, in effect, wait. It was a maneuver they had planned with inconspicuousness in mind. With reactionless drives it was possible, as it would not have been with rockets, however advanced.
Earth had fallen well behind by the time the maneuver was completed and they matched vectors. Reislon cradled the gig in Trovyr’s bay, and they all ran to join Borthru in the control room. As they ran, the acceleration warning sounded, and their weight jumped to what felt like one and a third Terran gravity. Persath staggered under what was, for him, slightly over 1.8 G. They helped him the rest of the way.
As they entered the control room, Andrew bade naval propriety be damned and shouted at Borthru. “You’re going to kill Persath! At his age—”
“It is only because of his presence that I haven‘t ordered a higher acceleration. We must get out to the transition limit—about the distance of Sol’s asteroid belt—without delay, and this time we have Sol’s gravity working against us, not for us. At the same time, we must work our way above this system’s plane of the ecliptic lest we be detected.”
“I think,” said Reislon, “that we already have been.”
They all followed his gaze to the sensor plot, where a subordinate was already turning to report to Borthru. He didn’t need to. The purple dot—the standard color that Lokaron fleets used to denote “hostile”—was obvious in the tactical plot.
It was immediately clear that the ship was not coming from Earth. It had been stationed ahead of the mother planet in its orbit, and now it was accelerating outward on an intercept course.
“How did they find us so readily?” Rachel asked. “I mean, isn’t this ship heavily stealthed?”
“There can be only one answer,” said Reislon. “They knew exactly where to look.” He studied the readouts. “The ship’s mass indicates that it is a cruiser, of the heavy strike cruiser category. Of course, it is impossible as yet to determine its precise class.”
“It hardly matters,” said Andrew. “A frigate—even one optimized as a combat ship, which this one isn’t—wouldn’t have a prayer in Hell against a strike cruiser and the fighters it can deploy.” In a corner of his mind, it occurred to him that he was coolly calculating the odds for a fight against a ship of his own service and his own race.
“Persath,” said Borthru tightly, “ please go to sick bay. They will be able to put you in a special acceleration bed.”
“It’s no use,” said Andrew. He knew enough of the common Lokaron script to make some sense of the readouts, and the course projections were self-explanatory. “That ship is crewed by humans—young, trained, physically fit humans. They can stand higher Gs than even your Rogovon. Given the respective courses we’re on, we can’t evade them or outrun them.”
“We can try,” snapped Borthru.
But the hopelessness of it soon became apparent. Even with the ability to accelerate continuously, without the reaction-mass limitation that had crippled the last century’s rockets, there were very finite limits to the extent that gravity and inertia, and the orbital courses around the Sun that they imposed, could be overcome. And whatever efforts Borthru made to wrench Trovyr into new courses, struggling steeply “uphill” against the gravity gradient, her pursuer could more than match them. The gap narrowed and narrowed until finally they received a signal.
“This is CNS Broadsword, calling the Rogovon frigate. You are in violation of Earth’s approach limits without authorization. Kill your acceleration and prepare to be boarded. Otherwise you will be destroyed.”
“How do they know this is a Rogovon ship?” Rachel whispered. Andrew had no answer.
“It would appear,” said Reislon, “that we have two choices: surrender, or commit suicide by attempting to fight.”
“Which is no choice at all,” said Borthru heavily. “But before surrendering, should we jettison this?” He indicated the enigmatic device that Persath had brought aboard.
“No!” Andrew shook his head emphatically even though he was sure the gesture would mean nothing to Borthru. “We can’t throw away our only lead to the Shape-Shifters. And it’s not as if we were surrendering to the Shape-Shifters, or to the Black Wolf Society, which must be considered effectively the same thing. This is the Confederated Nations Navy, for God’s sake! With them we at least have a hope of getting a hearing.”
“Agreed,” said Reislon. “However, indulge my cautious habits and conceal the artifact until we know where we stand with our captors. I’m sure, Borthru, you can think of any number of places on this ship.”
“We await your reply,” came the human voice from the comm station.
Borthru sought to temporize. “We have two humans aboard.”
“We are aware of that,” was the cold reply after the slight time lag of light-speed communications.
Andrew stepped up to the communicator with its still-blank screen. “This is Captain Andrew Roark, CNEN. I wish to speak to
your commanding officer—and see him, if possible.”
After another delay as comm lasers crossed and recrossed space, the screen came to life. The man in it wore CNEN dark green with black and gold trim and the four- starburst insignia of a captain. Even in the screen, one could tell that he was a big man. His face was strong-featured and about as dark as African-Americans generally came.
“Jamel!” exclaimed Andrew, recognizing an old friend and classmate from the Academy, and a fellow veteran of Upsilon Lupus. “Jamel Taylor! I never expected to see you here.”
Taylor’s face showed no surprise, nor anything at all except grimness. “Well, I fully expected to see you. We know all about you, you see. But—” (a flash of pained bewilderment in the dark eyes) “—I never expected to find you a traitor!”
The Security personnel who swarmed aboard the unresisting Trovyr were no Black Wolf thugs. They were pros. A quick, efficient scan revealed Reislon’s implanted gauss needler, and a device that emitted a focused electromagnetic pulse disabled it.
But they didn’t find the Cydonia artifact. There was, Andrew realized, no way they could have known what to look for.
As soon as they reported the ship secured, Taylor came aboard. Andrew, Rachel, Persath, Reislon and Borthru awaited him in what would have been called the wardroom on a human warship, under the alert eyes and leveled M-3s of a Security detail. In the room’s viewscreen, Broadsword could be seen, a watchful killing machine, its intricate massiveness lost in the distance.
Taylor strode into the room, his face like a dark storm cloud. Following him, and dwarfed by him, was a gaunt woman in severe civilian dress, with equally severe features and short iron-gray hair.
“This,” said Taylor without preamble, “is Ms. Erica Kharazi. She is here as liaison and . . . advisor from the office of Legislative Assemblyman Valdes.”
“Valdes?” Andrew exclaimed.
“Yes.” Taylor gave him a look that held neither nostalgia nor friendship. “It’s thanks to him that we know about you. He came to the Admiralty in confidence and explained how he had sponsored your and Ms. Arnstein’s trip to Tizath-Asor. After you departed that planet without informing your contact, a Mr. Leong of our embassy, he knew you’d gone rogue.”
“Leong? Listen, Jamel, Leong was—”
“Shut up!” snapped Kharazi in a voice that went with the rest of her. “It was thanks to Leong’s quick thinking and initiative that we found out you were headed to the Kogurche system, and that there you made contact with Reislon’Sygnath, in whom we’ve been interested for a long time. We always knew he was a double agent, and now we know he’s a triple agent.”
“How, exactly, do you know that?” Rachel demanded. “Have you heard from Leong lately?”
“Assemblyman Valdes has many sources of information,” said Kharazi with a tight smile. “It’s true that Leong is believed dead. That will be another charge against you two, to add to the list.”
“Jamel,” said Andrew desperately, “think! Valdes hasn’t got any magic interstellar radio. How could Leong have gotten any information to Valdes that would have enabled you to zero in on this ship the way you did? What kind of sources of information are we talking about?” Thinking to see a flicker of doubt on his old friend’s face, he pressed what might possibly be his advantage. “You’ve got to listen to me. First of all, Leong was a member of the Black Wolf Society—”
“I told you to shut up!” screeched Kharazi.
“—and what’s more, he was an alien, belonging to a species that can masquerade as humans. No, transform into human semblance.” Before the stunned silence in the room could break, Andrew rushed on. “Jamel, you know me. You know I’m not insane. And you also know I’m not stupid—at least not stupid enough to invent a story this implausible.”
Taylor’s face reflected his inner conflict. “Ms. Kharazi, there are a number of seeming discrepancies in all this about which I’m confused. I think we should investigate them further.”
Kharazi gave him an unpleasant look. “I advise against wasting time that way, Captain. You already know what you need to know: that these two, through their contact Reislon’Sygnath, have sold out to Gev-Rogov—”
“We do not represent Gev-Rogov,” Borthru broke in. “In fact, we represent the opposition to the gevah’s current regime.”
“Of course,” sneered Kharazi. “Gev-Rogov will say the same thing about you. It’s called ‘plausible deniability,’ Captain Taylor. A child wouldn’t be fooled by it, and neither should you. The other thing you should investigate is the theft these people have committed, and locate the item they have stolen. You must use any and all means necessary to get the truth out of them. This is no time for squeamishness.”
“There will be no torture used aboard my ship, Ms. Kharazi. I’m aware that I’m under orders to consider your advice—”
“Get it straight, Captain. You’re under orders to follow my advice. Remember, Assemblyman Valdes has very high connections, inside and outside the Navy. And even now he’s in space, in his private vessel, and will probably rendezvous with us later. You’d be wise to consider the impact your decisions may have on your career prospects, Captain.”
Andrew felt a dull, dead hopelessness congeal in the pit of his stomach as he looked from one face to the other. And, in the way the mind has of seeking refuge at such moments by fleeing into irrelevancies, he couldn’t help being struck by the physical contrast—comical at any other time—between Taylor and Kharazi, who was . . .
Small, and racially indistinguishable.
No. Don’t be crazy. There are lots of people who are below average in size. And lots of people who are multiracial, especially on today’s cosmopolitan Earth.
And yet . . . what other alternative have I? And what have I got to lose?
It all flashed through his mind in less than a second. At appreciably the same time, he caught Rachel’s eye. They exchanged a look, and somehow he knew that she had had the same stunning thought, and that she knew what he was about to do.
An infinitesimal nod of her head confirmed it. Then, without further ado, she let her legs go limp under her and collapsed to the floor.
When a woman appears to faint, any men present, however well-trained and focused, are going to take notice. That wavering of attention gave Andrew his chance.
He lunged at the nearest Security guard on his left, grasping the man’s right wrist and bringing it down across his knee. The M-3 dropped to the deck. Andrew scooped it up with his free right hand. It was set on semiautomatic, but with gauss weapons there was practically no delay between shots.
Oblivious to the pandemonium that had broken out, Andrew used the fractional second he had to squeeze off several shots. The characteristic snapping sound was almost as rapid-fire as on autoburst.
The first shot hit Kharazi in the heart. Blood welled up . . . but slowed immediately, and she stayed on her feet.
The other hypervelocity projectiles all whipped through the chest and abdomen. She sank to the deck.
Then the state of slowed time in which Andrew had been living was suddenly shattered by an explosion of sickening pain as someone punched him from behind in the kidney. Helpless with agony, he was forced to the floor, and both his arms were pulled up to the small of his back. He had already dropped the M-3, which he no longer needed.
He became aware that his fellow prisoners were going prone on the deck at the shouted orders of two Security guards, who were pointing their M-3s two-handed for emphasis. Another guard, presumably with medic training was crouched over Kharazi. He looked up and shook his head.
“It’s no use, sir,” he told Taylor. “She’s dying. They don’t even have a sick bay for humans here. And even if they did . . . I can’t understand why she’s not already dead.”
Taylor swung over to Andrew as the two guards holding Andrew’s arms hauled him excruciatingly to his feet. He thrust his face to within inches of Andrew’s. “You murdering bastard!” he grated.
&
nbsp; “Sir! Sir!” The medic’s voice rose to falsetto as he leaped to his feet and staggered backward from the obscenity he was witnessing.
Andrew could sympathize. It all came back to him as he watched: the horribly translucent lavender-white skin with its sprinkling of white hairs; the writhing and reconfiguring as the skeletal structure changed with creaking sound that set the teeth on edge; the huge empty eyes . . .
Shock gripped the room. The guards could only stare in horror. Andrew heard one M-3 fall to the deck. Below the level of any of the senses, he could feel panicked horror rising very close to the surface.
Taylor’s deep voice halted it.
“Release Captain Roark,” he said heavily.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“But what if you had been wrong?” demanded Rachel as they hurried along the passageway deep in CNS Broadsword.
“Well,” said Andrew, shrugging uncomfortably against the slightly ill-fitting uniform he had borrowed after going through the formality of reporting himself off leave to Taylor, “I suppose they would have executed me for murder after executing me for treason. Or,” he added thoughtfully, “do you think maybe it would have been the other way around?”
“You’re about as funny as pork barbeque at a bar mitzvah. And I must be as crazy as you are. I can’t imagine what possessed me to help you with your little stunt.”
“I never did get around to thanking you for that, did I? You did exactly the right thing.”
She made a nonverbal sound of deep skepticism.
They arrived at their destination, a briefing room where others were already present or filing in: Reislon, Persath, Borthru, and Commander Huai Mei, Broadsword‘s executive officer. This was hardly the first meeting the room had seen, as the two ships continued to coast outward from the Sun on their high-velocity hyperbolic orbit. The first had been for the purpose of revealing Kharazi’s body to Huai and Taylor‘s other officers and, while they were still in a proper state of shock, recounting the entire story to them—accurately, except that Andrew had continued to withhold the fact of Admiral Arnstein‘s suicide. Afterward had come the process, through the usual military educational trickle-down method, of disseminating the facts of their situation to the cruiser’s crew after requiring full medical scans under the guise that some type of toxin may have been released by the captured vessel. This had gone fairly smoothly. This was not the day of fighting sail, when crews had consisted of press-ganged gutter scrapings, nor even the more recent naval eras when crews had included unwilling draftees. Space crew were intelligent, educated people; they had to be.
